The Skeleton Man

Dryden nodded. ‘Like I said, it was one of my first decent assignments so I’m not likely to forget.’

Woodruffe watched a pleasure boat slip past, the portholes lit. ‘Jill Palmer – we weren’t married. A lot of things didn’t survive the move, you know – that was one of them. She went north – Lincoln, I think. A new life. Haven’t seen her since we left.’

One of the waitresses came out with a ham sandwich and salad and put it in front of Woodruffe. He watched her leave and then tossed the lettuce into the reeds, biting without enthusiasm into the white processed bread.

‘I didn’t ask for this. They think I need mothering,’ he said. Then, almost without a beat, he went on, ‘So you were there when they found him. Anything else… ? The police don’t seem to know what it was all about… this bloke’s skeleton just hanging there all those years. I mean, that’s fucking weird.’

The children sniggered at the language. Woodruffe dropped his head, sipping from the mug. The scent of the whisky hung about them now in the evening air and Humph sniffed loudly.

‘I think it’s all in the paper,’ said Dryden, nodding at the rolled-up copy. ‘All that they know.’

Woodruffe unfurled the Express but didn’t even try to read it, and Dryden guessed he’d been through it several times.

‘So the police have been round?’ Dryden asked.

‘Could say that. Two hours this morning. I had to go in this afternoon, all the way to soddin’ Lynn. I’ve got a business to run.’

‘You can see why they’re worried,’ said Dryden carefully. ‘He was hanging in your cellar. A cellar you hadn’t registered with the army. I’ve seen the questionnaire – nothing’s listed. It’s your mother’s signature, right? But I guess they think you would have checked the place out. What are they supposed to think?’

Woodruffe nodded. ‘I don’t want this in the paper,’ he said.

Dryden held his hands up as if that constituted a promise, wondering again why Woodruffe had agreed to talk, what was in it for him.

‘We never used that cellar, it floods in winter. I told ’em. When the form came round there was loads to do – it just slipped by. I’ve told ’em I’m sorry. And then they didn’t find it after anyway, did they? When they did a survey. It’s not all my fault.’

Dryden let the answer peter out. ‘So, who do you think he is, our Skeleton Man?’

Woodruffe pushed the gum packet away, turning the now-empty sandwich plate with his other hand.

‘God knows,’ he said, and Dryden found he wanted to believe him. But the landlord’s hand shook slightly as he sketched a line on the rough wooden tabletop.

‘But it was your cellar. There was stuff down there. You must have used it.’

‘Must I?’ Dryden saw a flash of anger in the eyes and watched as the muscles on Woodruffe’s arm bunched, adrenaline pumping round his blood system.

He pushed himself back from the table, creating more distance again between them.

He ripped open a piece of chewing gum and his jaw began to work at it manically. ‘Like I said, it flooded most winters. We used the bottle store above, but the cellar was useless. Everyone knew it was there – back in the eighties they tried running a folk club in it in the summer. Some kids formed a group and hired it for practice. It was no secret. There was no key, and you didn’t need to be the Pink Panther to get into the bottle store upstairs. Mum had put some things down there from when I was a kid because she didn’t want to chuck them, but that was it. That and some old bottles.’

‘Why d’you think the army never found it then?’

Woodruffe stretched his arms above his head, the joints clicking.

‘We stored stuff over the trapdoor, timber, logs for the inn. I guess they didn’t look very hard,’ he said, avoiding Dryden’s eyes.

‘When d’you go down last?’

He shrugged again, running a hand through the thinning hair. ‘Last day, perhaps second to last, to make sure there was nothing worth taking away with us. There were some glasses I think – but we left most of them because they were old-fashioned straights. Worth a fortune now,’ he laughed. ‘And Mum wanted some kids’ books, a few wooden toys.’ Dryden looked him in the eyes, which were small but calculating. So he’d remembered to check the cellar out. He could see why the police wanted another word.

‘That last night in the pub. It must have been extraordinary, knowing that you might not come back. Any of you. What was it like – party or wake?’

‘Bit of both,’ said Woodruffe, tipping the mug back. ‘There was certainly a party on by the time I closed the place, no point in leaving half-filled barrels, was there? We’d saved one for the next morning but they drank the rest and I wasn’t charging. MoD had put enough cash behind the bar to keep them happy for a week. A few lads had too much, and we had the old boys from the almshouses in – kinda guests of honour, if you like, and they can put it away. But then they didn’t have far to stagger home.’

‘No trouble? No scores settled?’

‘I’ve told the police everything, OK?’ Dryden noticed he hadn’t answered the question.

‘Punch-up?’